Safe Ride
by LittleMissDementorsKiss
Summary: Everyone thinks that they're doing it wrong. But Everyone is an idiot. Everyone could go hide under a rock and die for all she cares, because she knows that she and Remus are better than Everyone's tests. Inspired by the song Safe Ride by CIWWAF. M for naughty words, not for naughty hugs.


**I've been super-frustrated lately (my family is visiting; somebody kidnap me. Please!) and this song has been my saving grace. I don't know why, but it really seems to calm me down. It's a beautiful song, and CIWWAF is amazing to begin with. I've also been reading a lot of Remus/Hermione stories lately. So I decided to combine them. Actually, I was threatened by my brain; that plot bunny was a demon on steroids, I swear.**

**For the purposes of this story, Remus is alive…clearly.**

**Also, JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I am not JK Rowling. You connect the dots (because if I do, I'll cry)**

The nightmares began almost immediately after the war. Sometimes the flashbacks to the Final Battle, to seeing so many taken down before her eyes—and worse, to not seeing her friends and loved ones at all—occurred during the day. But there wasn't a night that went by that she didn't wake up screaming, covered in sweat, and often being held down by Remus so she didn't hurt herself or anyone else. Then, she'd sob. She'd apologize for soaking his shirt, and he would say it didn't matter as long as she was safe.

She never drank much before. Every few weekends, she'd grab a glass of butterbeer with Harry and Ron. During a Christmas dinner party when she was ten her mother had let her try a sip of wine, which she immediately spit out to everyone's amusement. But soon, she was just plain sick of seeing Ron's cheating face on the cover of every scrap of paper at a newsstand (though the woman on his arm was different in each photo) and of the rumors in the tabloids about "Hermione Granger's Sordid Affair with Former Professor". She had always been insecure as a result of being mocked all through her childhood, and gossip columnists exploited that. She was sick of arguing with her _completely platonic_ housemate about whether locking up her wand at night (like he wanted) or keeping it under her pillow (like she did) was a better insurance of her and his safety. She was sick of life in general. And, like anyone who was sick, she sought out a cure.

And she found it in a bottle of firewhiskey.

Hermione knew the difference between casual drinking and alcoholism, and she never saw herself as an alcoholic. But God forbid anyone get a photo of her at a bar. Was the Golden Girl descending in to the trap that so many of her fellow veterans had? According to _Witch Magazine_ and _Phoenix Monthly_, of course she was! She got a beer every once in a while. It made a good story. That was proof enough for them. The Quibbler stood up for her, but (even caring about the Lovegoods like she did) Hermione had to admit that if anyone of importance started reading something with every other page printed backwards, there was something in society that gravely that needed to be fixed.

So, to deal with this new development, she drank more. And more. And more.

And, although she would never admit it, she did slip.

To top it off, since it had been falsely reported beforehand, the world had moved on and no one gave a damn. The Weird Sisters dominated headlines with their comeback tour through Scotland, although Ron, with his ever-changing relationship status, kept the shittier tabloids on their feet.

The only one who seemed to even notice was Remus. He tried to help her. He tried to keep her safe, to keep her too busy to go out and get blitzed every evening.

"Hermione, why don't we stay inside and watch a film tonight instead?"

"I'm not in the mood for it tonight, Remus."

"Hermione, how about I make dinner tonight, then we can relax in the library."

"Maybe another night."

"Hermione, I do wish you wouldn't go out so often."

"I'll be careful, I promise."

She always promised to be careful. It never made him feel better about it, especially after the Great Splinch.

It wasn't as dramatic as it seemed. Remus had just made a cup of tea when he heard her apparate into the foyer. Then, when he heard her cursing up a storm, he had gone to check on her.

"Are you O.K, Hermi—Oh, shit. Damn it." His rare coarseness was lost in Hermione's extensive vocabulary as he set down his tea on the arm of a chair and sprinted down the hall.

He tried to grab her ankle to get a better look, but she slapped his hand away. "Ithssth no big deal, Remus."

"Oh, for God's sake," he whispered, running his hands through his already tousled hair as was his nervous habit. "Merlin, Hermione. What did you do to yourself?"

"It's juth a little splinchy-splinch splash taking a bath." She said, then, "Damn it, Remus. Don't toush it! Ith all ouchy."

"No shit! Look at it, Hermione. That's _blood_!"

"Fuck off!"

As it turned out, it was only a bit of flesh from her heel that was missing, thank God. It was easily healed and bandaged. Soon enough, Remus was carrying her up the stairs and helping her out of her small green dress and into some pajamas.

"Goodnight."

"Nighty-nighty. Something with bedbugs."

The next morning, Hermione woke up screaming for the first time in a good while. Remus rushed into her room, ready to help her. He hated to admit it, but he would rather her go through the nightly terrors than have her stumbling about every night like she was.

"What's wrong?" He asked as soon as he burst through the door.

"Shhhh, don't talk. You're hurting my head."

"You were the one who just screamed bloody murder."

"Will you please tell me why it feels like I just stepped on a knife?"

"You splinched last night."

"No," She denied immediately, "I would've remembered."

"You were so pissed, I'm surprised you were able to speak. I know you have trouble thinking straight when you're drunk—" he started, holding up his hand when she opened her mouth to protest, "but call me next time. I'll help you home."

"Get me coffee."

"Hermione." He said, glaring at her.

"I'll be _fine_, Remus. It was a one-time thing. People splinch all the time."

"You didn't even _remember_ it, Hermione! Do you know _why_ that happens?"

"It's because my non-essential functions were shutting down. I know. But it was a fluke, I swear. I'm a smart girl, remember. It's my fucking legacy."

"Hermione."

"O.K, O.K, I'll call you. Just…. Coffee. Please."

"Back in a mo."

It took convincing, and at one point he phoned the muggle bar that she was going to that night and left his number. But eventually, she did make habit of calling him, and he was her safe ride. He held her hair when she was sick, he made her coffee in the morning, and he put a card in her wallet with his number, just in case she was too intoxicated to call him herself.

Not everyone approved of their situation. Molly Weasley tended to floo over for the sole purpose of scolding him.

"She's sick, Remus. She needs help."

"I know, Molly."

"I don't think you do! You're enabling her. You're helping to spur on this… addiction. I'm not sure that living here," she waved her arms, gesturing to Grimmauld Place, "is very helpful either. There are memories here, and you know it. I'll take her away if it happens again, Remus. Is that clear? She'll come and live with me."

She had tried, too. But Hermione could be a strong-willed bitch when she wanted to, and she screamed her lungs out. Molly was old, and Hermione was drunk, and in the end things remained as they were.

It was during a ride home that he witnessed her breaking down in tears for the first time in over a year.

"Shhhhhh." He whispered soothingly, taking one hand off of the wheel of her car to pat her leg. "Shhhhh. It's all right."

"No." She hiccupped. "No, it's not. I can't feel the happy anymore, Remus. It doesn't go away. Just the pain."

"Shhhhhh."

"Ron's getting married." She whispered before another bout of sobbing.

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

"And it _still_ hurts. It doesn't fucking work anymore, Remus. Don't you get it? It _hurts_."

"Hermione, let's get home. I'll make you some tea, and we'll watch a film."

Hermione shook her head. "Read me a story."

And so, after they pulled in the driveway and into the hidden flat, they went to the library. The alcohol she had consumed seemed to have little effect, and she was able to walk (albeit slowly) on her own. That didn't stop her from sighing contentedly as she fell into the plush sofa.

Remus found a book. It was a muggle novel she had supplied, but there was no war in it. There was no magic. There weren't even any weddings. It was something that she could enjoy without bringing up memories that she had gone to such lengths to suppress.

So the next day, when Remus said, "Hermione, I do wish you wouldn't go out so often," Hermione acquiesced. They stayed in, ate a lasagna, and Hermione got sick. She hadn't known that alcohol could cause withdrawal; she had only heard of it happening with hard drugs. But she went through it, and was sober. And he helped with the nightmares, just like he used to. When Ron was in the tabloids with someone who most definitely was not his wife and she was reminded of their breakup and just why it had happened, he was there to calm her down. And when she lapsed, when she once more climbed into a bottle to hide, he was there.

It happened in cycles. She'd drink herself sick to the point when sobering up caused more sickness. No matter how many times she blamed it all on him, he never complained. He always was there when she called. No matter how many people put down how they lived, told them that they were doing it wrong, he stayed with her. No matter how many times Molly tried to take her away, he always let her stay. Even when she was more trouble than she could possibly be worth, he was there. He was everything she needed—always.


End file.
